Reflection
by californiatart
Summary: Modern AU. After another fight with his lover, a man cuts himself and, in turn, is able to see his old sweetheart once more on the other side of the mirror. Arthur x 2P!Alfred x Alfred.
1. On the Other Side of the Mirror

**_Warning_**: Cutting, self harm, violence, mature theme.

**_Pairing_**: Arthur x 2P!Alfred x Alfred

**_Chapter 1_**: On the Other Side of the Mirror

* * *

The sound of his warm beating heart, like a bird's lullaby. His once peaceful and calm face, pressed against the soft green grasses. His once silver blonde hair gleamed radiantly under the sun. His once cerulean blue eyes, a replication of the open sky. His once childish laugher of mindless, mischief joy under a passing wind breeze. Absent. Diminished away. His old sweetheart… Was dead. Buried alive deep within the recess of his heart, his thought, his memory. Till this day today, all which left of him, under the remains of his fragments, inside his core, through a layer of skin, muscles, bones, his organs, his intestine, is a worm; a virus; a parasite. And, his so call '_lover_', Arthur, is his host.

The parasite's host, Arthur, is a young man, in his late twenties or so, British. His pale hair, discolored into a muddy yellow. His dull eyes; copied the blacks and the blues bags on his skin under, are just two unmoving green orbs. A skin too bleached pale, an alabaster white. His desiccated, eerie lips, in a pasty nude pigment. The upper half of his body is unclothed, bared, naked. Inside the mirror he was standing in front of, on the opposite end, stood a glass image of him; there is a tattoo engraved across his chest, his veins, his flesh, his skin.

_Alfred._

_Today. All days. Always._

His old lover, or rather, _the parasite_, a haunting duplicate of his high school sweetheart, Alfred, is living with him, now, had the same matching tattoo on his left chest, except it was Arthur's name instead of his. Below Arthur's right chest, is a bruise, purple, blue, brown… it does not matter, a bruise is a bruise, and he was used to the pain. Arthur was not a weak man though; he did the same damage that his new lover, a worm, _the parasite_, inflicts on him. This results the new lover with a bloody nose, clutching on to his bleeding wound, slouching in his own puddle of thick, scarlet red blood; his own blood faking of red human's ones. Arthur, instead of feeling remorse, he felt alive, proud, and powerful when injecting the blows and hits to this "_Alfred_". Arthur picks up the green bottle beside him, places it against his withered lips, and takes another sip off of the bitter alcoholic beverage inside. He could feel his throat constricted itself; of the addictive liquid drug passes over his heart; through the long inner intestinal loop inside his upper stomach, in the end, emptied into his hollow liver. He could feel his blood thinning as the drug digests and spread throughout his body, his vision hazed; his gasp, and pants; breaths in shallow exhale and inhale.

Numb. He did not feel anything from the sip, the taste, the flavor, off of beverage. Below, in front of his hips, there is a drawer slightly parched open. Through the cracked space, Arthur spotted a small, silver rectangular box resting in the front corner. Without thought, without reason, without care, his hand ghostly shield over the drawer's knob, and pull, until the container inside is fully visible on his sight. The golden light on top of the mirror intensified the silver skin of the container. Arthur grabs onto the container and pulled it out, freeing it from the shadows beneath. He looks at it for some time, studying the small, rectangular box with a blank expression on his face, its smooth surface, the shiny silver color, the weight on his hand felt light, like cotton. He presses the button on top of the small rectangular box, unlocking the item inside, slide out a thin razor blade inactively hidden on top in the tightly compacted compartment. The thin razor blade in his hand was cold to the touch. He stared at his reflection inside the silver skin of the razor. Arthur cringed upon seeing himself in the reflection. _What the hell…?_ His hair, his eyes, his skin, his lips, his teeth… He could feel the parasite's seeds in him, inflecting him, draining him, spreading his contagious disease all over him. He could feel his whole body wrapped up in a cocoon shell, hidden, trapped, imprisoned... Why he is still with him, he does not know; he had long forgotten the reason why he endures, why he stayed.

As if possessed, controlled, haunted, he angled the razor blade at a joint just behind his left wrist, and then slits the tip of the sharp object across the pale skin. The white sink beneath him, instead of catching the fallen blue downpour of rain inside the hole of the faucet on top, it begins to mimic the color of red, of his blood, dripping down, and down, and down. Little dots of fireflies and butterflies in the daylight. How delightful.

The pain.

He was able to feel the pain.

Arthur put the razor down next to him, marred in his own blood, the white tile under shadowed the red color. He did not want to risk losing any more blood; the sight is nauseating to him as he is afraid of blood after all. But, for a tiny, split second, it felt good, real good. And the dazing aching's afterwards, like taking a gulp of fresh air off of a cigarette. Arthur closes his eyes, taking pleasure in the throbbing sting on his left hand. He begins humming, rejoicing this new sensation, of gratification, of passion, of excitement, he felt; of pleasurable agony that he had long time forgotten about. He let out a small laugh, feeling himself like a child riding on his first bike. He smiles. Before him, is a wide open sky, shouted in silvery stars and shooting meteors, a moon in crescent, calm winds, and the smell of freshly brewed tea in the air; all in all, it was a very lovely night.

When Arthur slide opens his asleep eyes, the first thing he comes in contact with is… blue eyes. A pair of blues that Arthur has disremembers. The man standing before him was smiling, so brightly, youthfully, his hair, a copy of the sun, his eyes, a splitting image of the heavens above, his lips, blood cherry red, his skin, a kiss of a fallen heart. Arthur could see his own reflection in the man's clear blue eyes, of Arthur's staring back at him, gaped, amazed, surprised.

A ghostly whisper passes Arthur's lips.

"… _Alfred…"_

"Hey Arthur, you have been sleeping for a long time now, wake up, sleepy head." Said the man, whose figure was blocking the intense ray of the sun behind his person.

"Alright." Arthur answered, still dumbfounded, of seeing his lover here. _Where is here anyway?_ Arthur got up; behind him is a tree's trunk, he turn his head to have a look at his surroundings. By the look of things, he was in a village, or something like that, sheets and sheets of farms over to his distant right, cows, pigs, gooses, ducks, flocking the entire street with people chasing and crowding them into bars, fences, and houses, it was a busybody afternoon… It was cold, too, not by a lot, but it is enough to inject goose bumps on his skin… His hands are wet, Arthur noted, he looks down. The ground beneath him is fostered in white snow; a sun peaked above the clear sky, just enough for a bit of warmth for the winter blanket under. He was wearing completely different attires too, a black fedora, of sort, over his head, a white buttoned up shirt, with a thick jacket over, dress pants, and some brown leather shoes.

Okay, this is definitely, not London.

"Where am I?" Arthur questioned, looking into this "_Alfred's_" honest blue eyes.

The man that Arthur refers to as 'Alfred' settled himself on a spot next to him. "Why, you are in Boston, Massachusetts." He answered.

Arthur's eyebrows, thick and confused, huddled together. He was beyond flabbergasted. "… What day is today?"

Alfred looked surprised, and decided to play along this game that Arthur usually pulled on him. "December 1st, oh, and the year is 1773, sir…. silly, what planet are you from?" He hit Arthur's shoulder, light and joking, and begins laughing in that old, weird laugh of his.

After his laughter died down, his face grew grave, thoughtful, with hands folded over to his raised legs. He turned to look at the bright sky above his and Arthur's. "… Tomorrow, you will joint our group… but, do not worry; my other teammates are very friendly and nice… Are you scare, Arthur?"

'_Of what?'_ Arthur mused to himself, and decided to answer the man's question nevertheless, wonderment and curiosity, of this world belonged to this man sitting beside him, "Yes." He simply wanted to know more.

"… We are the Sons of Liberty, remember that, swallow it up, burn it into your memory, forever. We are going to take back our land, our freedom, our liberty. Let's fight together, so this country will be independent from the British's rule. What do you say, Arthur? You in with me on this?" Alfred inquired; his blue eyes even more blue than before as he stared into Arthur's green eyes.

For a moment there, Arthur's breath was in his throat, held and constricted, unable to utter a word as he attentively listen to the man's speech, of free will, of having a choice, of a hero caring for his people.

"_Yes."_ Was Arthur's answer, even if he does not belong here, even if he does not understand a thing, or what is happening, but he was convinced, he was swayed… he wanted to join him on his… quest, it sounds so important, like, he had no choice but to accept because of the look on Alfred's face. The determination on his expression… reminding him of a man Arthur's once loved and admired. Alfred stood up and proclaim, "Good I will be the hero, and you; you will help me to become the hero of this country!" He takes Arthur's right hand with him, and dashes toward north, toward the bright burning sun. Arthur could only follow suit, still dazed and confused, but, he could feel, and experiment the same excitement in Alfred's warm hand, of him leading his person toward something great, something heroic, something amazing. And then, they run, and run, and run, to where Arthur does not know, he just feel like following this man…

_Pound!_

The sound of fists pounding on a hard, wooden surface, vibrating on the bathroom's walls, snapped Arthur out of his stupor, delusion, mirage, of the world on the other side of the mirror. "Arthur! Are you done yet?!" Comes the sound of the worm, the parasite, of this "Alfred", his new lover, shattering, on the outside of the white door. His reality come crashing back to him, where everything is an untidiness clutter, where he does not feel a thing no more, where _Alfred_, his love, is long lost, of his world tumbling down into pebbles and dust's remnants. The wound on his left wrist creased its blood flow for a while now, of now dried up, and about to heal itself. Arthur takes a look in the mirror, his reflection stare right back at him; he was half naked.

"Bloody hell, I'm coming." He replied, his left hand brushes his bangs out of his face. He takes out a bandage inside the drawer and sealed it over his barely there bleeding wound. He picks up the razor blade and wipes his blood off of the tip with a paper towel. Then, Arthur slide the razor back into the rectangular container, put the container back inside the drawer, and then, seal the drawer tight. After making sure the blood inside and around the sink is disappear, dissolve, vanish, he walks over to the front door, away from the mirror, of the world on the other side, with the whiskey bottle in his hand. He takes a huge gulp of the alcoholic drink, the white tiles underneath him was cold and slippery. He turns the knobs, and flip opens the white bathroom door.

Only to come in contact with dead blue eyes staring back at him.

.

_**Author's Note**_: Hey~! I hope you like this so far! This story happens because it all started with the, _"Californiatart, is smut the only thing on your mind?"_ talk between me and my friend… Yes…? Nevertheless, I thought it will be fun to write something different for once (?). I post this earlier, got shy, deleted it, but… I was somewhat intrigued by this, so... why not? :)


	2. The Man Behind the White Mirror

**_Chapter 2_**:

The Man Behind the White Mirror

* * *

The white light was patently bright. The walls of whites were like sheets of snow. Even the pale colored furniture's are dipped in decolorized silver. Same as a psychiatric ward for human beings with mental disorders. Except there is only two patients in this compacted room, one outfitted in alabaster whites, the other clad in onyx blacks. The first patient had a cerebrovascular accident; his name is Alfred F. Jones. The second patient, Arthur Kirkland… what does he have? Schizophrenia? Bipolar disorder? No, he'll go with clinical depression, which is the most closest to his psyche.

In the middle of the room, are two moving white bodies of humans; humans with their hands moving and mouth chewing leisurely, on ecstasy, trying to relishes the bits and bits of unidentified substances disperse all over the table. There were other strange and colorful drugs scattered all other the floor under. Weeds, cocaine, meth, salvia, cough syrups, mucinex, sleeping pills, e-pills, and angel dust. The doctors in this psych are the drugs, the windows are the nurses, and the four walls are the other patients.

"… What the bloody hell is that, Alfred?" The black body of a younger male queried, looking at the peculiar item on display in front of him.

"Opium. You will love it, I swear, Arthur. Try it!" The larger white figure urged, holding up a grey smoke pipe, already with the green opium spread neatly around the pipe's hole opening. He lit the pipe up with a lighter beneath, waking the asleep drug and gives it to the younger male. The fire had brought back the life and the vigor in his eyes, a gemstone cerulean; a serene blue sky. The scent of fresh flowers ignited from the hole on top of the pipe opens and bewitched the mind and wits of the younger male. The tobacco bought from the supermarket has no longer give off the satisfaction Arthur craves and hunger after. Arthur cautiously and carefully take a small whiff off of the end of the pipe, the inhalant then bottled up in his throat; his whole body begins to quivers from the metaphoric effect of drug. The delight and the bliss finally shown through his solemn and stern face. With then a carefree expression, Arthur releases the white smoke through his mouth. The addictive essence had managed to calm his body, eases his mind, Arthur was able to see through the clouds in front of him. Alfred's smiling face is now shown so clearly and brightly before him. The room is a pleasantly white color.

After a long, peaceful silent passes, Alfred's voice got Arthur's attention, "… I visit the Urquhart Castle last week, and guess what? I saw "Nessie", legendary and enthralling Loch Ness Giant, Arthur, she is a beauty, I tell you."

Arthur blinked, "No more." There are no more delicious drugs, only the burnt ashes and ciders from the opium remains, disseminated around him like a field of shrunken flowers, the persistent smell, hallucinogenic. He felt like crying from the loss. _"No more."_

No more.

Alfred gets up; his body limps from side to side as he goes to open a window for some air. Upon seeing Alfred's staggering body, Arthur bites his lips hideously. The drugs, these drugs, are not enough to erase his mind blank. Arthur could still recall some memories, some reminiscences, some recollections. He had remembered of the time when he willingly followed Alfred because he has nowhere else to go, of falling in love madly, of their secret vows, of… Alfred lying on the hospital's bed with all sort of different tubes tying to him. Arthur's mirror snapped, he recalled of times when Alfred barge into their bedroom and beat the shit out of him for no apparent reason, of his hysteric laughter in the middle of the night, of his obsession of bringing home strangers and slept with them.

Arthur put down the pipe slowly. "I'm tired this home, I'm tired of this life… I'm tired of you," He susurrated repulsively, his green eyes shown antipathy and cynicism.

Alfred was opening the window's blinds midway, but stopped tersely, only to weightily shut the blinds tightly closed. "… What did you just say, dear…?" He requested favorably.

"I'm tired this home, I'm tired of this life… I'm tired of you," Arthur repeated, insouciantly. "Do you want me to say it again, honey?"

Alfred's blue eyes cracked undone, extensively wide. He rushes over to Arthur, pulls his black polo up by the collar and releases a blow on his back cranium, afraid to soil his pretty pale face. "Shut your filthy mouth."

Arthur twisted his head over and smirks gruesomely; he warped the taller male's hand away from his body, almost breaking his bones. He presses the joints together harder. Alfred winced in agony. "Ouch, I'm sorry, Arthur, please don't hurt me," He immediately begged in a childish voice, the voice that belonged to Arthur's old lover. "Please."

"_Please."_

The Briton felt a pang of guild simmered up in his gastric and releases his attacker's hand. There were little spots of whites in his green orbs. Arthur had felt the same sting, anguish, throbbing as him. _This bastard…_ There were tears endangered to spill all over his eye's hollows. A blue bubble manages to drip. It trickled over his white face, sagging against his chin, and seeped down into the cold floor.

"_I'm sorry, Alfred." _

Arthur turned himself over, and run straight to the tiny hall that led to the bathroom. He swings the white door open and locked himself behind the shield. He walked forth. In just a few footsteps, a giant mirror appears. His reflection is inside, staring at him back with black eyes. His shirt is black, his pants are black, and his socks are black. Arthur feels like a ward, a maggot, a bug inside a person's intestine. He flip undone the drawer underneath the crystal white mirror and takes out the same small box… how long was it? A day? A week? A month? But, he could still remember Alfred's, his real lover, face so clearly, smiling at him, even in the dead of winter, he had felt like standing below the blazing sun. He wanted to see _him_, again. Arthur slide out the razor from the container, and dithered, waivered, faltered. He is afraid of blood. The smell of it is sickening, the color of it is unsightly, the taste of it is abhorrent. But, he wanted to see Alfred, that Alfred, again. _Badly_. His bouncy sapphire eyes, unlike dead cobalt ones, his yellow hair, unlike dirty blonde ones, his grinning red lips, unlike bloodshot ones. It doesn't matter where, Boston, whenever, December or what not, to whomever the Sons of Liberty. Arthur just wanted to be with Alfred. He winched his green eyes together and looked deeply into the mirror… He swears he could see a white outline of Alfred's smiling and waving at his person on the other side of the mirror.

… _Alfred… _

… _Alfred…_

… _Alfred…_

A small cut.

Spores of red begin lining up against that little scratch. Arthur could feel the sting. He could feel the trembling nervousness inside his pastel white belly. But, not enough to cause any hallucinogen yet. More. He needs more stimulants. He raises the razor up and angled in against his visible wrist.

And then everything goes blank.

Arthur had felt ecstasy.

* * *

To be continue. :)


End file.
